


Every Heart a Doorway (To Another World)

by Princess_Aleera



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Christmas, Compulsion, F/F, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, M/M, Multi, Supernatural Elements, Tags belong to separate chapters, Ugly Holiday Sweaters, boys being bad at feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21772633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Aleera/pseuds/Princess_Aleera
Summary: Jon spun around suddenly and leaned down over the table, until he was right up in Martin's face. "I like tea," he said, with the intensity of someone who has just bestowed upon you a great spiritual truth."... What?" Martin asked.A series of ficlets featuring TMA characters in various different universes and stories.Chapter 1:Twilight.Chapter 2:Lois & Clark.Chapter 3:Jessica Jones.Chapter 4:Van Helsing.Chapter 5:Bridget Jones's Diary.Chapter 6:A Christmas Carol.Chapter 7:Pretty Woman.
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 115
Kudos: 130





	1. DECODE (twilight)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first time writing in the Magnus Archives fandom, so I'm just dipping my toe in. I may continue some of these ficlets, if there's interest, so feedback is super duper appreciated! I will write chapter-specific tags, warnings, and etc in each chapter. Title is stolen from the Seanan Mcguire book of the same name, whose strange and wonderful universe will not be included here. I just loved the title too much.

Martin was sat in his own thoughts when Jon dropped down in the chair opposite him, oddly graceful as always despite his lanky frame. Martin did not acknowledge him, just kept on eating his dry sandwich one bite at a time.

Jon sat there for a full minute, with the impatient air of someone who's expecting _you_ to start the conversation. Martin refused to do so. He was done being polite to this absolute child.

Jon eventually cleared his throat and folded his hands. "It has been... brought to my attention," he said slowly, like it was painful for him to say the words, "that I may have been ... somewhat discourteous earlier."

A surprised laugh escaped Martin without his consent. It burned in his throat. " _Were_ you, now."

"... Yes," Jon said. "So Tim tells me."

"Well, you can tell _Tim_ that he needn't have bothered to teach his rude brother basic manners, because I am done trying." Martin took another vicious bite of his sandwich. It tasted like ash to him, his stomach churning, and he ignored it.

Jon frowned. He almost looked... alarmed? But that was probably just Martin's imagination. "That's unfortunate," Jon said, still with that awful even tone. It made him seem... not human, incapable of real emotion, and honestly, at this point Martin wouldn't be surprised.

"I had hoped- well. I suppose I should leave you to your food, then." Jon rose fluidly from his seat, face still caught in that odd frown, and made to leave.

Again, Martin felt that twinge of guilt in his chest, and he reminded himself that Jon had done nothing to elicit such sympathy. He'd been a twat, and now he was dealing with the consequences of his twattery, and that was _fine_.

Jon spun around suddenly and leaned down over the table, until he was right up in Martin's face. "I like tea," he said, with the intensity of someone who has just bestowed upon you a great spiritual truth.

"... What?" Martin asked.

Jon stared, if possible, even more intensely at him. "I like tea," he repeated. "I especially enjoy black tea with a splash of milk." This close, his honey-coloured eyes were so bright they were nearly mesmerising.

Martin told himself he was just confused and not mesmerised at all. Not even a little bit.

"Um, me too?" he said, when it was clear Jon wouldn't get out of his personal space without _some_ kind of response. "I- I prefer darjeeling, myself. It's a little posh, but- although I mean, Earl Grey is also quite nice?"

Jon nodded sharply, and then he just... left. Without another word.

Martin stared after him in utter confusion.

Melanie sat down in the now-empty seat, and stared after Jon's retreating back. "What was that?" 

"Good question," Martin said.

"He looked angry at you." Her arched eyebrow told him that was a question, and she started eating her own lunch.

Martin opened his mouth to agree, but then thought better of it. "You know what? I don't think he is. I think that's just... his face?"

Melanie snorted.

~*~

A plan formed in Martin's mind over the next few days. It was not a sophisticated plan, by any means, but he had a feeling Jon wouldn't appreciate that anyway.

So on Friday in the lunch break, Martin made sure to notice Jon _first_ , and not the other way around. He walked over with all the casual poise he did not feel, and pulled out his thermos. Then he sat down.

"Hello, Jon," he said, as if his hands weren't shaking slightly from nerves. "I brought you tea, if you'd like some."

Jon blinked owlishly at him, the book in front of him forgotten. "Tea?"

"Yes. You said you preferred black tea?" Martin took out the extra mug he'd also packed with him this morning – he was nothing if not prepared. "I didn't bring any milk with me, but we can get some from the cafeteria."

Jon stared at the mug in front of him. It was brown and had a smiling cartoon cow on it. Beside the cow, the pink text read **'don't be a COWard!** ' Jon looked like he'd never seen neither a mug _nor_ a cow in his life.

Martin swallowed his nerves and brought his own thermos-lid-cup to Jon's, clinking them together in an awkward pseudo-toast. "Cheers."

Jon seemed totally lost. But he did grab his mug eventually, hesitant, as if he was afraid it might explode. "… Cheers," he said and took a small sip.

The grimace on his face was subtle, but Martin was paying close attention, and he guffawed into his own cup at the sight of it.

"I'll just get some milk," Jon said and rose from his seat. "Would- would you like some as well?"

Martin smiled. "I'm alright. Thank you."

Jon did his 'new information added to the mental archives' nod, and then he walked over to the cafeteria, his gait almost... shuffling. His shoulders were hunched and he looked lost, like his entire day had been turned on its head by Martin's umprompted gesture.

_Well, now you know how it feels,_ Martin thought cheerfully. He still felt nervous – maybe he was pushing too hard, too fast – but when Jon returned with a small sachet of creamer, he had the smallest smile on his face. Like he had successfully assimilated this new information.

They sat in quiet as Jon put creamer into his coffee and stirred it with a plastic spoon he'd also picked up. His eyes seemed lighter than usual today, almost amber, but maybe it was just that Martin finally had time to really _look_.

Jon took another sip of his tea. This time there was no grimace.

“Good?” Martin asked softly.

“Good.” Jon didn't smile, but he didn't really need to.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen I know this _technically_ doesn't have any vampire stuff in it, but


	2. NEW ADVENTURES   [Superman, Lois & Clark]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning for a perceived break-up, and the heartbreak involved; and a briefly mentioned background character death.  
> Chapter pairing: Jon/Martin, Jon/Martin. No, it's not a typo :)
> 
> Chapter notes: it has been a full decade since I watched Lois & Clark, so really I just wanted some superhero drama?

Jon had spent the last twenty minutes of his work day trying to make up his mind.

He hadn't succeeded.

The offices of The London Watcher were unusually busy, even for a Thursday afternoon, and Jon knew why. The Retriever had been spotted again, this time saving a random, unlucky bystander from becoming worm meat. The re-emergence of Jane Prentiss, supervillain extraordinaire, would obviously have had the paper buzzing anyway. But the _death_ of Jane Prentiss, by the hand of a superhero so benign that the London public had named them after a _fluffy dog_ – now _that_ was news almost as extraordinary as the Retriever themselves.

Jon had put Martin on the case, as he usually dealt with the Retriever articles. The man had an almost preternatural knack for finding eye witnesses that had both been close to the action _and_ were willing to share it with the Watcher. He also refrained from sensationalism in his articles, which Jon had always appreciated. Martin was not the best journalist here, but he was more than adequate.

And yet, today, Jon rather hoped that Martin's usual ability would fail him. Because the thing was that this random bystander, this unlucky would-be Prentiss victim... well, it had been Jon. And Jon would rather not have his name plastered across the local newspapers.

Especially not because of what had happened _after_ he was rescued.

A soft knock on the door, and then Martin poked his head in. “Good morning, Jon,” he said. He was smiling brightly, clearly trying to contain his own excitement. “Cup of tea?”

“Ah. I, yes,” Jon said and smiled back. It felt forced, and he quickly abandoned it in favour of reshuffling the papers on his desk, as if he were in the middle of something extremely important. He doubted Martin believed it.

“Right you are,” Martin said and disappeared, if possible even _more_ cheerful than usual.

Jon knew why. He almost wished he didn't.

Sooner than he would have liked, Martin returned with Jon's tea. He closed the office door before coming over to Jon's desk, his own subtle way of asking Jon for some privacy. Jon wanted to refuse him, if only to prolong the inevitable, but that wasn't fair to Martin.

None of this was fair to Martin. But keeping quiet about it all would be even more dishonest.

“Thank you, Martin,” Jon said and picked up the tea. He allowed himself one sip. One final moment of hesitation. But he _had_ made his choice. He just didn't want to deal with the consequences of it.

Martin, for once, did not seem to notice Jon's reticence. “So, I was wondering. About this Saturday?”

“Ah, yes. I actually... I wanted to talk to you about that.” Jon cleared his throat awkwardly and put the cup back down, avoiding Martin's eyes. When he looked up again, the cheerful smile had been replaced by a mildly worried frown.

“Is- is everything alright? Are- you're not sick, are you?” Martin looked alarmed by that, which frankly was unnecessary – Jon was no superhero, but he wasn't some wilting _flower_ either.

“No, no. I'm... quite alright.” Jon couldn't help but tug at his long-sleeved sweater. It was unseasonably warm, but there had been some... worm wounds. After Prentiss. The bandages covered all of it, but he didn't want Martin to worry unduly. They would clear up in time.

Probably.

“I'm fine,” Jon repeated when Martin didn't look convinced. “However, I'm afraid I will have to cancel our Saturday... date.”

Martin blinked. “Oh. I mean, that's fine, we can just reschedule. Did something come up?”

Jon's hands tightened around the tea cup. Oh, this was _horrible_. “Sorry. I meant- I'm afraid I'll have to cancel our... any date plans we might have. Permanently.”

The silence stretched between them, thick like fog. Jon was heedless of the bustling life right outside his office; as far as he knew, there was only him, and Martin, and a silence so oppressive it threatened to consume them both.

“Oh,” Martin said, finally. His voice was so small. His face had fallen into a mask that was not as neutral as Martin probably hoped it was. “I see.”

“I apologise,” Jon started, but Martin cut him off.

“You changed your mind, then? Just like that?” He didn't say it as an accusation. He said it like it was an inevitability.

It was so tempting to agree. But Jon had made a promise to Martin, unbeknownst to him, when Jon first started entertaining these... _fond thoughts_ about his colleague – his subordinate, really – that he would never be deliberately dishonest. He planned to see that promise through.

“Not as such, no. However, I have-” Jon wrung his hands. “Martin, I'm afraid there is someone else.”

Memories of blue eyes behind a dark mask, kind and smiling; of hands carefully wrapping his arm in gauze; of a deep voice, slightly distorted, murmuring _I'm glad I wasn't too late to save you_...

Martin was blinking rapidly now, the tightness in his shoulders and face a tell-tale sign that he was struggling not to cry. Jon felt like the scum of the earth.

“Martin. I really am sorry. It's, I swear I haven't been going behind your back.”

“No, I-” Martin took a deep breath and visibly schooled his features. The smile he gave Jon was, somehow, even more painful to watch. “Do you, do they... reciprocate your feelings? If that's not too personal a question, that is.”

Jon huffed a tired laugh. “As far as I can tell... yes. They do.”

Martin seemed to shrink further into himself with every word Jon said. “That's... I'm glad. I'm happy for you, Jon.”

Jon's heart ached to know that he'd never be able to have that first date with Martin. He'd been quite looking forward to it, actually, despite knowing how terrible he was at dates. “You don't have to be, you know.”

But Martin just shook his head. “No, I mean it. I'm- I hope whoever they are will make you very happy.” He turned to leave his office. Jon didn't say anything. What else was there to say?

Martin's hand froze on the door handle, though, and he turned to Jon one final time. “Can- can I ask who they are?”

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.” There was an edge of steel in his voice now, a desperation, that Jon shouldn't love – but he did. It showed that Martin wasn't quite as shy and defenceless as people tended to think. It was that edge that had first made Jon fall in- well. Jon liked it, that was all.

Jon liked Martin. And worse yet, he _trusted_ Martin. So despite knowing that his next words would make him sound like a lunatic, Jon decided, once again, to be completely honest.

“The Retriever.”

 _That_ seemed to steal the words from Martin's mouth. Jon had another sip of tea just to have something to do.

“The- the superhero?”

“Yes, Martin. The superhero.” Jon braced himself for whatever incredulous reaction Martin might have.

“... _Fuck off_.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry, I didn't- I should leave you to your work,” and then Martin was out the door, face red with... something. If Jon had to guess, it would be embarrassment.

But that didn't make any sense.

Did it?

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is appreciated! And thank you so much, everyone who already commented. Y'all have made me feel so welcome :')


	3. A THOUSAND EYES     [Jessica Jones]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the first of the "... oh well that got dark" ficlets. Oops.
> 
> Chapter pairings: established Jon/Martin, past Jon/Elias*
> 
> Chapter warnings: Compulsion/mind control, *past abusive relationship ( **no** sexual violence), allusion to PTSD.
> 
> ...I mean, it _is_ based on Jessica Jones.

God, he needs a smoke.

Jon roots around his drawers until he finds an ancient pack of Marlboro's, and then he heads out onto the veranda. He grabs the lighter that sits on the table out there and lights up. Immediately he doubles over, coughing and wheezing, his lungs protesting the smoke.

Fuck, he hates smoking, he really should-

His chest tightens as he stares at his lit cigarette. He lets it drop from his hand, fingers and body numb as his heart speeds up to fight-or-flight level.

He did quit. He's always hated smoking, he hasn't touched a cigarette in two years, not since-

_his fingers are shaking from the nicotine and he's nauseated, but he still feels like he **needs** another one. Elias is watching him... fondly, Jon wants to say._

_"You know, I know smoking is a terrible habit," Elias says, "but I've always been attracted to smokers. Isn't that odd? I suppose it has to do with the 'bad boy' image. Though you're not much of a bad boy, are you, Jon?"_

_He cards his hands through Jon's hair, like he's petting a house cat, and Jon leans into it. He likes being touched by Elias. He loves Elias._

_"I should have another one," Jon says, more to convince himself than anything else._

_"You know, I think you should." Elias lets him go. "I'll keep you company."_

_Jon's stomach churns. It's just the nicotine, just the-_

Jon stomps viciously on the cigarette and crushes it into the concrete floor. He feels sick, and he feels like another cigarette. He needs it.

His fingers dig out his phone and press the emergency contact number. Two rings. "Hello, Sims Investigations, how can I help you?"

"Martin," Jon grits out. "He's back."

He listens to Martin's sharp inhale. "Jon. Is he with you right now?"

"No. I don't think he's even-" Jon catches himself fiddling with the lighter and stops.

He doesn't have a lighter. Not one like this, at least, and Martin certainly wouldn't let him keep it out here on the table, where crows or a strong gust of wind could take it. Jon looks closely at it. It's beautiful, small and silver, with an eye engraved on both sides.

Jon closes his eyes. "He's been here, Martin."

"Jon, lock yourself in the bathroom. I'll be there as soon as I can. If you find _any_ letters-"

"- 'don't read them'. I know." Still, he doesn't move. He shouldn't. He should stay right here.

"Jon?" Martin says. "Are you locking yourself in?"

And it's like some invisible wall in front of him is gone. Jon walks briskly inside and into the small bathroom they share, locking the doors as he goes. "I am now."

"Good. I'll call you as soon as I get there. Don't open the door until then, okay?"

"I won't."

"Not even if you want to."

"I won't, Martin."

"Okay." They listen to the other breathe over the line. "I love you," Martin says.

"I know," Jon murmurs. He curls up in the empty bathtub and closes his eyes. He already thinks locking the door was a bad idea. What if he can't get out? What if something happens to Martin when he comes? "I love you too. It's getting worse."

" _Promise_ me you won't open that door, Jonathan Sims," Martin says. His voice is shaking and he sounds out of breath, like he's running for the tube. "Promise me."

"I promise. Come quickly, if you can." Jon hangs up, and hides.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your comments! <3


	4. USELESS CRUCIFIX [Van Helsing]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, ok. The next one's gonna be cheerful and cute, promise.
> 
> Chapter pairings: ymmv? it's pretty gay anyway  
> Chapter warnings: amnesia, villain monologuing? also context-less Van Helsing fusion, I suppose

Elias cocked his head to the side, as if he were a bird and Jon were a particularly interesting-looking worm. “Jonathan Sims,” he said, voice silken smooth, and Jon could _feel_ the compulsion flowing through the words, trying to ensnare him. “What a surprise.”

“Let him go, you- you _demon_ ,” Jon gritted out, fingers clutched around his holy cross so tight he could feel the metal dig into the skin of his palm.

Martin, pale and still clad in that ridiculous yet beautiful dress, watched the proceedings unfold without a word. The way he stood, pressed up against Elias's side like his _dance partner_ , made Jon's chest ache with fear.

Elias quirked an eyebrow. “Really, Jon? 'Demon'? That's awfully trite of you. I expected something more... creative. Something personal, perhaps?” His hands still clutched Martin by the shoulders, pale fingers playing with the neckline of the crimson-coloured dress. He was not _quite_ touching Martin's throat, but the threat was still clear.

Jon frowned at the odd choice of words. “Personal? I don't know anything about you aside from what you are. Which is a monster.”

Elias laughed. It was a high, clear sound, like a tea spoon clinking against a champagne glass. It somehow fit him perfectly, and not at all. “A monster? Well. I suppose I am, at that. But no more than you, Jon.”

A cold lump settled in Jon's stomach. “What are you talking about,” he said, breathlessly. He still clutched the cross. It did not burn him. It never had. Why would it?

“Jon,” Martin said softly, but Elias's fingers immediately moved up to splay across his throat, threatening to squeeze tight. Martin quieted. The pained expression in his face had nothing to do with his own pain, Jon was certain of that. Martin did always care too much.

Around them, the ballroom was quiet. One hundred people in masks and finery, and no one said a word. They simply watched the scene unfold, frozen. Like it really was just the three of them here, stood in a hall full of nothing but colourful statues.

“Jon, Jon,” Elias said, his voice a gentle sing-song. It was so easy to get lost in that voice, in those gentle eyes, in the cold hand that beckoned him forw-

_NO._

“You're evading the question,” Jon said tightly.

Elias's smile sharpened. “Why don't you _make_ me answer, then.” One of his fingernails traced a line along Martin's throat. Blood welled up in its wake, and Martin sucked in a sharp breath.

“ _Do we know one another?_ ”

Jon's voice echoed in the room. It reverberated, in a way it really shouldn't. The force of it shook him to his core and left him feeling frail – like a breath of wind would be enough to pull Jon's skin right off. He felt simultaneously invulnerable and as brittle as a dried leaf. And still he couldn't look away from Martin. That trace of red along his collarbone. That pink cheek colour in his otherwise pale face. That stubborn tilt to his jaw that let Jon know that Martin had no intentions of letting him do anything heroic and foolish in order to save him.

Elias' smile widened. “Delightful. You're getting better... _Archivist_.”

A sizzle of agonising heat shot up Jon's spine. The word meant nothing to him, and yet his entire body _sang_ with recollection. He stumbled, even as he stood still, and Elias's bell-like laughter rang out once again.

“You really don't remember? They must have held you at the church for longer than I had thought. Then again, that makes sense.” A glint of canines as he tilted his head. “After all, it _has_ been nearly two hundred years.”

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are delightful and I appreciate them a whole lot. :3


	5. ALL BY MYSELF [Bridget Jones' Diary]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter pairings: pre-Martin Blackwood/Timothy Stoker, pre-Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
> 
> Chapter warnings: Martin's mother is still the worst :) also, arguably "awkward flirting" and "terrible puns" could be considered warnings here. But mostly this is a fun time, I did promise y'all.

Martin knows he won't have time to pop by his flat before driving out to the country – he lives in London, after all – and so the moment his Friday officially ends, he's out of his cubicle and off to the men's room to change. It's a stupid tradition, but one his mother loves, and though she rarely seems to appreciate his efforts, Martin is loath to go against her express wishes. Especially when there will be plenty of distant cousins around if she decides to make a scene of it.

Anyway, all of this to say that when Martin stumbles face-first into his boss on his way out, his hair is combed, he's somehow ten minutes behind schedule, and he's wearing a hideous Christmas sweater with a beaver on it.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry!" Martin says and steadies his boss before he can fall. Timothy Stoker is a tall man, but Martin is both taller _and_ broader, and this wouldn't be the first time he's accidentally bowled someone over. "Are you alright, sir?"

"Woah, Martin, everything alright?" Tim says and puts a steadying hand on his arm. "I don't usually see you in such a hur- is that a _nutty beaver_?"

Martin looks down at his terrible sweater. The beaver on it is grinning, with a carrot in its mouth, and the text next to it says **_NUTTY OR NICE_**. It doesn't make sense at all, everything is wrong about it and one of the beaver's googly eyes is already missing, but it _was_ a gift from his mother.

"Um. Family party, sir. It's... sort of a tradition."

"Well, that's delightful," Tim says and looks wholly amused. "I was actually going to ask if you'd be able to stay, there's been a last-minute cancellation for the book fair and we're all scrambling."

"Oh! Well, I mean, I _could_ -"

"No, obviously you can't, not with that outfit," Tim says. "And anyway, what kind of boss would I be if I kept you from your family during Christmas time? I know I've some uncharitable nicknames floating about, but I'm not the _Grinch_."

"I'd never, sir," Martin says nonsensically. God, his boss is so handsome. Sometimes a week will go by without Martin seeing him and he'll think, _is he really that fit?_ But yes. Yes, he is. And judging from how much Martin's coworkers make fun of him behind his back, he's not all that subtle about his little crush, either. Oh, well. At least Tim has never reprimanded him for being inappropriate at work. Maybe he hasn't even noticed.

"Relax, Martin, I'm just having a laugh." Tim clasps him by the shoulder, and the touch lingers. "The sweater looks good on you. I mean, as much as a Christmas sweater can look good on _anyone_ , I suppose."

The butterflies in Martin's stomach awaken from hibernation and stir their wings hopefully. "Oh, I. Politely disagree, sir? But thank you." 

“You're welcome.” There's a pause, a silence that's half awkward and half... not. Tim keeps staring at him, with a small smile on his face, and it's odd but Martin's happy to just stare at his boss's face for a little while.

“Well, I guess you better get going,” Tim says eventually, once the silence has stretched into a thick band between them.

“I guess I should, at that,” Martin says. They're standing closer than they need to be, he notices now. “Mum would hate it if I were late.” Well, if she notices at all, but Tim doesn't need to know that.

“You'll be fine, I think,” Tim says and looks at his sweater again. “You don't strike me as the... _nutty_ type?”

It's a question, followed by a quirked eyebrow. He's still smirking like this is a secret, this conversation they're having, and it's doing things to Martin's insides that he frankly isn't sure is all that healthy.

“I- I mean,” he stutters, and he's probably blushing and he's _definitely_ late now, but this feels like flirting, “I can be. With the right, um. Incentives.”

Both of Tim's eyebrows climb all the way into his hairline, and Martin is seized by the sudden panicked realisation that he might have strayed into sexual harassment territory. But then Tim grins, wide and _delighted_ , and Martin relaxes.

“I'll keep that in mind, _Mister Blackwood_ ,” he says, voice nearly a purr, and leans close enough that with one sudden move, Martin could be kissing him. “Well. Best go. I'm sure you're a... busy beaver.”

Then he steps back, winks in a manner that can only be described as _salacious_ , and walks back in the direction of his office. Martin hurries to his car and his mother and the terrible Christmas party, insides buzzing all the way.

~*~

Martin greets his mother with presents, a big smile, and a hug. She accepts all of this with an annoyed huff, takes one look at his sweater, and says: “Did you gain weight again?”

“Always lovely to see you, Mum,” Martin says and parks his presents by the door so he can get his shoes and coat off. “It smells lovely here.”

“You're awful late, you know,” she says. “The Jeffersons have been here for a full hour already.”

“Well, seeing as they're your neighbours, Mum, I reckon they didn't have to cross London to get here?” He hangs his coat, and reckons from the excess of coats already hung here that he's the last to arrive.

“No reason to be rude, Martin,” his Mum says snippily. “I'd just appreciate you trying to be on time for my biggest gathering of the year, is all.”

The dig jabs hard at him, as it always does. But Martin has been bruised and battered by his mother's sharp tongue ever since he was a boy, and at some point, some of those wounds must have scabbed over. Because these days, he's mostly just amused or annoyed in an exhausted way. He tries to tell himself that that's better, but he's not sure.

“Where d'you want the presents, Mum?”

She ignores him, or doesn't hear him. It's hard to tell which; she _does_ have lousy hearing that she refuses to get checked at the doctor's. “The Ospreys couldn't make it, but little Lousie Jones is here all the way from Bournemouth with her brand-new husband, and the Sims were _finally_ able to make it, you know they usually head to Bath this time of year, but apparently their German Shepard got a _terrible_ growth on his testicles and-”

Martin lets his mother's chatter wash over him and brings the bag of presents with him further into the hall. The medium-sized house is filled with people, most of them his parents' age and vaguely familiar, and Martin greets them with nods and smiles.

“- and I remember how _close_ you two boys were before so I reckon you'd want to sit together, catch up-”

“Wait, what?” Martin realises abruptly that he's missed something important. From across the room, by the canapés, Mrs Osprey winks drunkenly at him. “Who did you say again?”

“Jonathan _Sims_ , Martin, pay attention when I'm talking to you,” his mother snaps. “He's finally returned from Oxford. You know, he's a _doctor_ now.”

“Really?” Martin says, his mind already wandering again. The name doesn't ring any bells. “That sounds nice.”

“It _is_ ,” his mother says pointedly and takes the bag of presents from his hand, finally. “You should go... freshen up, before you see him.”

“I should?” Martin looks down at himself. It's true that his mother is never quite happy with his looks, but she's not usually one to beat around the bush about it.

“I hear he's a girlfriend, but they're not so serious,” his mother continues, her voice and gaze pointed. “And according to his mother, he. You know. _Plays golf without handicaps._ ”

Martin stares at his mother. She winks in a manner that is both conspiratorial and deeply disturbing. “... Mum, what are you _talking_ about?”

“Oh, come off it, Martin, you know I know all the Bee Gees Teal slang,” she says. “Now go fix yourself up. Your face is puffy. You haven't been crying, have you?”

“Wh- no! Why would I be crying?”

She takes him by the chin to study his face closer. “You're blotchy. It's deeply unattractive, you know, I always did wish you hadn't inherited you dad's complexion. Got awfully freckled in the summer, the both of you.”

Martin wrenches himself out of her claw-like grasp. “Alright, _alright_ , I'm going.”

“I've some concealer in the bathroom, if you-”

“Yes, Mum, that's quite alright.” Martin hurries off before she can berate him further about his _face_. He doesn't actually need to use the loo, but he absolutely needs a moment away from his mother to regain his equilibrium.

It's always like this when he comes back home. Why is he still surprised?

The loo is, of course, occupied. Martin waits for a few minutes, and just about decides to return to the party when the door finally opens and a man steps out. He's unfamiliar; Martin's pretty sure he's never seen the fellow before. Maybe this is Lousie Jones' new husband?

“Apologies for taking so long,” the man says. “Some sort of problem with the... flushing.” The tips of his shaggy hair are wet, like he's just washed his face, and he looks bone tired and borderline unhealthy.

His voice takes Martin by surprise, though. It isn't particularly high or low, but it has a certain... timbre to it, a cadence that is remarkably comfortable to listen to. It makes Martin think that this man, whoever he is and whatever he does, is used to speaking in front of a large audience on a regular basis.

“... Oh,” he says when he realises the man's words should have prompted some sort of reply. “It's no trouble, really. I'm mostly here to escape the party, as it were.”

“Ah.” The man offers him a thin smile. Martin can't tell if it's genuine or sarcastic. “Understandable, I should say. The hostess is...” he wrinkles his nose, like he's just smelled something foul.

“Persistent?” Martin offers.

“Dreadful, really.”

Martin laughs, and ignores the part of him that's hurt on his mother's behalf.

The man gives him a polite nod. “I should get back to the party. Enjoy your reprieve.”

“Thanks.” They smile at one another, and then Martin slips into the bathroom. In the end, he does find his mother's concealer. After all, there's a chance that man is _not_ Lousie Jones' husband, and if he's no one's husband at all...

Well, Martin wouldn't want him to be scared off by his sallow complexion, is all.

~*~

By the time Martin feels like he's ready to face another portion of his mother's important evening and has returned to the living room, everyone else has been seated by the table. They're chatting amongst themselves, but they still turn their heads in his direction when Martin enters the room, making him feel like he's alone on a stage about to perform a monologue he has not rehearsed.

“Ah, there you are, Martin darling,” his mother says, voice sharp and bright in a way that lets him know she's upset with him again. “I swear, the day my boy shows up in time for _anything_ , I just might die of the shock.”

The guests – the _audience_ , Martin thinks somewhat uncharitably – titter and laugh politely.

“Long as he shows up in time to the Pearly Gates I reckon he'll do just fine, eh?” says a boisterous older fellow that Martin's pretty sure is Louise Jones' father. His wife laughs a bit too heartily at the uncomfortable joke.

“Come sit down, Martin, don't just _stand_ there,” his mother says and indicates an empty chair next to her own. On its opposite side sits the man Martin met outside the bathroom. He looks... very blank, Martin thinks.

He's already regretting the subtle traces of concealer on his face.

It's Christmas turkey, of course. His mother always gets it done, never cooks herself, which is just as well, really. At least these particular turkeys are never tough as hide. The amicable chatter continues between the guests as they eat, and after the third 'accidental' elbow to his side from his mother, Martin figures she wants him to get to know his table neighbour better. So he decides to play nice.

“Hello, my name is Martin Blackwood. We didn't get to properly introduce ourselves earlier.”

The other man raises his gaze from where it was deeply focussed on his own plate and frowns at Martin. “... hello.”

Martin waits for the continuation. When it doesn't come naturally, he laughs a little, awkward and – truth be told – a little confused. “Sorry, what was your name?”

“Jonathan Sims.” No more information is given, neither is any indication that _Jonathan Sims_ wants this conversation to continue. Though he _is_ still staring at Martin like he's a particularly interesting bug, which is... it's certainly _something_.

“Hello,” Martin says again, and desperately casts his mind back to his earlier conversation with his mother. “Oh! You're a doctor, right? That must be such an exciting career, I don't think I could deal with the pressure of saving lives on a regular basis!”

Jonathan's frown deepens. “I'm not a doctor.”

That does stop Martin in his tracks. He glances over at his mother, but she is seemingly _riveted_ by the conversation between the Jeffersons and is paying him no mind at all. “Oh, I thought-”

“I have a _doctorate_ ,” Jonathan clarifies, “from Oxford University. I suppose it can be... easy to conflate the two.”

Martin's cheeks grow warm with embarrassment and... and a little anger, actually. Is this guy implying that Martin doesn't know the difference between a PhD and a medical license? “Well, I mean. I know what a doctorate _is_ , I just heard that- you know what? It doesn't matter. What's your doctorate in? I'm sure it's a fascinating subject, whatever it is.”

Jonathan sighs and puts down his utensils, as if this conversation with Martin is a great burden. “Yes, I suppose it is, to the right people. I specialise in the history of modern mythic cults. I am also currently working on a second degree in Sumerian linguistics and etymology.”

The more he talks, the more Martin gets the feeling that Jonathan is quite full of himself – and also that he believes Martin is stupid. Which makes it unfortunate that Martin knows very, very little about Sumerian and cults, he supposes. “Oh. That's- there are many modern cults about, then?”

“Yes,” Jonathan says. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I would like to continue eating my dinner.” He picks up his cutlery again.

“Oh, of course, sure,” Martin says. He can feel his mother's disapproving stare boring into his neck, so he doesn't tell the guy off for, frankly, being unforgivingly rude. Instead he just considers the whole thing a wash and eats his own dinner. He regrets the concealer. Whatever... golf analogy Jonathan Sims is, Martin is definitely not interested.

No matter how lovely his bloody voice is.

~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to get one more up before Christmas Eve, but we shall see. I appreciate your comments a whole lot; they decide a lot of what I'mma try to write more of in the upcoming year :)


	6. ROOM IN YOUR HEART [A Christmas Carol]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter pairings: pre-Jon/Martin, established Melanie/Georgie
> 
> Chapter warnings: grief, loneliness.
> 
> Takes place in a slightly alternate s4 of TMA where the Apocalypse really WAS averted. Also, apologies for the sad Christmas story right on the cusp of Christmas, but I promise a super fluffy (and long!!) ficlet on Christmas morning! Take care of yourselves out there, folks <3

“I'm supposed to show you one more,” Tim said, hands in his pockets, slouched and bored-looking.

Jon nodded, still watching Georgie try on the hideous Christmas sweater her girlfriend had just given her. She was having a hard time, even with Melanie helping her, because the sweater was at least four sizes big and she was laughing so hard she was doubled over. Georgie's parents, who had never gotten on with Jon, were both laughing along in the background, faces flushed with joy and eggnog, shouting out unhelpful instructions.

Georgie told them to shut up, her head caught in one of the sleeves. Melanie cackled so hard she had to sit down.

“I mean, if you wanna just stay here and watch your friends be happy without you, that works as well,” Tim said.

Jon forced himself to look away. “No. No, I'm ready.” He wasn't, of course. But he _was_ the one who had accidentally opened a Leitner. He was well aware that there was no getting off this ride until it stopped on its own.

“Alright, then.” Tim snapped his fingers, and the living room of Georgie's parents bled out into grey mist. It only lasted a moment, far too short for Jon to steel himself for whatever might come next.

The flat was unfamiliar and quite cosy. They were standing in a cramped living room with a connecting kitchen. The sofa looked old, but comfortable, there were books and various things strewn about without it being a complete mess, and in the corner stood a meter-high Christmas tree in plastic. It was lit up and covered in tinsels and baubles of every-which-colour.

Jon didn't recognise the flat. But he did recognise the man in it.

Martin was curled up in one corner of the sofa under a grey, soft-looking blanket, with a cup of tea in his hands. The tea looked cold. He was staring at nothing, his reddened eyes distant. There was a used tissue crumpled next to him on the sofa.

He'd been crying, Jon realised.

“Did you know his mum died while you were in a coma?” Tim said.

“What? No, I- She did?... Christ." He'd had no idea. No _wonder_ Martin had wanted to work overtime today. And Jon had sent him home.

Only now did Jon notice the single lit candle by the window, next to an old framed picture of an older woman who looked nothing like Martin. Martin wasn't looking at it – he wasn't looking at anything. There were nobody else there, and no signs of any Christmas dinner, despite the clock on the wall showing the time to be a quarter past seven.

Martin looked _unbearably_ lonely.

“I sent him home,” Jon said quietly.

“Yeah, you did,” Tim said.

“I- I thought he'd be happier if he were out of the Archives. I thought-” _I thought he had people to go to,_ Jon didn't say.

“Shows how well you pay attention,” Tim sniped. “Came back from the dead with _all_ this new knowledge, and your people skills are still shit.”

That was cruel, and – yes, probably true – but it was more cruel than even _Tim_ would be. Jon was fairly sure. Or maybe he just hoped. “You're not really Tim, are you?”

Tim arched an eyebrow at him. “Aren't I, boss?”

Jon swallowed. “No. Tim is dead. You're... some aspect of the Leitner book. Taking on his- mannerisms.”

“Sure.” Tim turned away to stare at Martin, who had put down his cold cup of tea.

Martin left his blanket on the sofa, and shuffled away to pick up a paper bag sat by the turned-off telly. He took it back with him to the sofa. Out of it, he pulled a wrapped gift and a single card. He stared at it for a while longer. Jon watched as his eyes filled with tears, slowly, before they started trailing down his cheeks.

“ _Ugh_ ,” Martin said, face contorted in disgust, and he pressed his palms hard against his eyes, as if willing the tears to stop. “Stop it. _Stop_ it. It's Christmas.”

Jon felt like crying with him. He didn't _understand_. Martin was... well, alright, so he'd been... _subdued_ , ever since Jon came back from hospital, but that was normal, wasn't it? After they'd stopped the Unknowing, after Tim and Daisy- and after Elias had been taken into custody, only for Peter Lukas to take over as a substitute – after all that, they were _all_ miserable. The Archives were quieter than they had ever been.

But it shouldn't be... it shouldn't be _this bad_.

Martin had switched on the telly and flipped to a channel that played Christmas music. It was cheerful and loud, and it did nothing but highlight how godawfully _miserable_ Martin looked. He picked up a pen and started writing in the card, sniffling occasionally as he did. Even alone, in the privacy of his own home, he still seemed ashamed about his own tears – the tears that continued to fall, despite him angrily dabbing them away with his crumpled tissue.

Jon wanted nothing more than to walk over to him, gather him up in the longest hug any of them had ever had, and ask him _how can I make it better?_ Whatever had Martin so distraught, beside his mother's passing and the Archive and just- _everything_ \- whatever it was, Jon wanted to alleviate his pain. 

But he was still trapped here, on the outskirts of reality, with an avatar of The End that was wearing his dead friend's face.

“You can walk closer, you know. It's not like he'll notice you creeping up on him.”

Martin was still writing on the card. And for the first time since Jon and Tim had arrived here, he was actually smiling. It was a small and sad smile, but a smile nonetheless, and Jon was suddenly _desperate_ to know what was giving Martin a brief respite from his own misery.

So he walked closer, around the couch, until he could lean over Martin's shoulder and read the words he was painstakingly writing. It was a terrible breach of privacy, of course, but then again, all of this was. 

The reason Martin was taking so long, Jon realised as he watched him write, was that Martin was attempting calligraphy. It wasn't quite, at that, but it _was_ beautiful-looking. He had taken great care in shaping every letter.

Jon's stomach dropped when he saw his own name.

_Dear Jon,_

_Merry Christmas. I hope it treats you well, and I look forward to seeing you again after the holidays. I got you something small, no need to get me anything. It's more of a gag gift than anything else, but I saw it in a store and thought you might like it._

_I'm glad you're back._

_Kind rega_

Martin was still working on the sign-off, but Jon couldn't watch him anymore. The care, the _love_ poured into the words on that card, it was too much. Jon turned away, shame and something strangely like grief burning in his throat. He stared at the clock on the wall for over a minute, watching the seconds tick by, until he no longer felt like he would burst if he were to open his mouth. Tim, thankfully, gave him his time without saying a word. Then he turned back around.

“Tim?” Jon asked, even though he knew it wasn't Tim, not really. Although it really didn't help that he sounded so _Tim_. 

“Yeah, boss?” Tim was slouched against the telly.

“Will Martin be okay?”

“No.”

Jon nodded. He wanted to scream. “What's going to happen?”

Tim shrugged. “That's not my job to show you.”

Jon gritted his teeth together. “Whose is it, then?”

“Me,” said a different voice, right next to him, and Jon spun around.

Gerry Keay looked just like he'd done when Jon had summoned him not one year ago, pale and ethereal. He also looked like he was happy to see him. “Hello, Jon.”

“Hello, Gerry.”

“Ready for some more?” Gerry asked, and glanced at Martin – who had put the finished letter in an envelope and curled back up under the blanket – with an expression of sympathy that almost looked genuine. “It's going to get worse, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Jon said. And he did. “Just- give me a second?”

“Sure thing,” Gerry said. He clasped Jon by the shoulder, and though his hand mostly felt like a gust of cold air, Jon still appreciated it.

He stared at Martin pretending to watch the telly, At the Christmas tree, which had two presents under it, neither of which were from Jon. At the cold cup of tea that was still full, even though Martin _loved_ tea.

“Merry Christmas, Martin,” Jon said softly. “I hope- I'm sorry. I really am.”

Martin grabbed the remote and flipped off the telly. Then he sunk back into his blankets.

“Okay,” Jon said.

“Okay,” Gerry agreed, and snapped his fingers.

~*~


	7. TANGLED [Pretty Woman]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter pairings: Martin Blackwood/Gerry Keay
> 
> Chapter warnings: None, really!
> 
> This takes place in a vague alternate TMA, where Gerry's life took a different direction and there are no more apocalypses after The Unknowing.

Gerry lights his cig and watches the small crowd of people exiting The Magnus Institute. Some of them are Marked, but most of them aren't, and two of them are past clients. Nice enough fellows, both of them. Gerry unbuttons his coat and lets it hang off him, showing off the fishnet tee he's wearing underneath. The winter chill immediately gets under his skin, but he's used to that.

A few people catch his eye as they walk past; some of them disapproving, some of them obviously appreciative of his slight frame and black eyeliner. Gerry knows he looks good, despite being a bit on the gaunt side.

One of the blokes notices him and stops dead in his tracks, like he's never seen a sex worker before. He doesn't seem repulsed or horrified by Gerry or his translucent tee, though, so Gerry winks at him. He's a tall one, broad too, but he's wearing a thick, purple down jacket, so he's as far from intimidating as a bloke like that can be.

The bloke glances around the other people leaving with him, probably coworkers, and sort of... fades. It's hard to describe; he's still _there_ , as real as ever, he's just... difficult to notice. Gerry's gaze sort of slides off him, like he's so unremarkable he could just as well not exist at all. Then the bloke makes his way towards Gerry, eyes on the ground. Nobody else calls out to him.

Gerry doesn't move, but he does take stock of the stiletto knife he's got in his boot. His tattoos prickle uncomfortably, and when the bloke is about ten feet away, Gerry catches the _faintest_ smell of salt water coming off of him.

The Lonely. Fucking figures.

“Hi, excuse me?” the bloke says to him, hands in his jacket. The other people have moved on, so the two of them are alone here by the alleyway. His voice is high and strangled in the way people get when they're not used to asking people to have sex with them for money.

Gerry's still prepared to go for the stiletto if he needs to, but in truth, he's not really getting any bad vibes. So he smiles, pleasantly with just a hint of sharpness. “Hi there.”

“I'm sorry, I'm not- I don't really do this,” the bloke stutters, “but I'm, I was wondering if you were, uh, just standing here, or, or if you maybe, um-”

“If I fuck people for money?” Gerry says helpfully.

The bloke splutters and immediately goes beet red.

“I do,” Gerry says and grins. No need for the stiletto. This one's not looking to lure him into The Lonely, he's probably just... well, _lonely_.

The bloke still looks mortified. “Oh, I, that's not actually what I want? I mean, not that you're not attractive! You're lovely, it's just, I-” He looks like he's about to choke on his own word-vomit. "I'm sorry."

Gerry is _terribly_ amused. “So if I'm to understand you proper: you came over here to tell me you _don't_ want to fuck me.” He raises an eyebrow, but can barely keep the smile off his face.

The bloke pinches the bridge of his nose. “ _Christ._ ”

Gerry laughs.

“I'm- so sorry, let's just start over.” He extends his hand and gives Gerry a pained smile. “Hi. My name's Martin.”

“Gerry. You okay, Martin?” Gerry takes his hand. He makes sure the touch lingers longer than necessary, just in case Martin here _does_ want to fuck him.

Martin laughs a little. “You mean, aside from all- this? Yes, I'm fine. I've just found myself in an awkward situation and I, um, I was wondering if you could maybe help me?”

Gerry doesn't say anything, just raises his eyebrow again. He hopes it isn't drugs, or anything Entity-related, but Martin doesn't seem like the type.

“You see, I.” Martin rubs the back of his neck. He's no longer blushing, but his cheeks are still red from the December cold. He's got that kind of complexion, Gerry supposes. “It's a long story, really, but the _thing_ is that my colleagues believe I've had a boyfriend for a few months now, which I don't, and I promised to bring my fake boyfriend with me to our annual Christmas party, which is _tonight_ , and I went ahead and _forgot_ , and now I have _three hours_ to find a boyfriend and I just, do- do you do escort work at all?”

By the time he's finished, his voice is high-pitched and panicky, and there are red splotches all over his face. _Definitely that kind of complexion_ , Gerry thinks idly.

“You want me to be your fake boyfriend?” he asks.

“Only for tonight! And, yes. If, if that's- I just need you to stay with me for the party,” Martin says and glances at Gerry's revealing tee. “We don't- no sex necessary!” He forces out an awkward laugh.

“I mean, I'm _fine_ with sex, so long as you pay me,” Gerry points out. “But if you don't want, that's fine. I'm not really an escort, but I think I can play someone's boyfriend for a couple of hours.”

Martin's face lights up. “Yeah? You would? I'll, I mean, I'll pay you, obviously, you're- it'd still be a job.”

“Obviously,” Gerry says, but he is smiling and he knows it. When Martin smiles, the smell of salt water fades until it's nearly gone. Gerry doesn't know if Martin's a would-be avatar of the Lonely or a victim of it – or both, really – but whatever he is, it hasn't quite got him yet. It _is_ trying, though.

Martin takes out his wallet and stares at it. “Um. Do you have a... set rate, or? I recently, um, got a quite sizeable pay raise, so it's. It's probably fine.”

Gery does, but not for this. He pretends to take a moment to think on it. “One thousand.”

Martin splutters. “One _thousand_ pounds??”

Gerry grins. “Seven hundred, then. And _you_ pay for my suit, unless you want me to wear this to the party." He pushes the coat off his shoulders, letting Martin get a good look at him. The biting cold means his nipples are _very_ prominent through the fishnet, and Martin definitely notices.

He seems almost tranfixed, lost for a moment, before he catches himself and turns red again. "That's- yeah, that's, um, fine, seven hundred. I'll – I know a place," he says. Then he reaches out, like he wants to touch him, but falters. "You should put your coat on proper, you'll get sick."

"I'm fine," Gerry says, but he does button his coat back up. He shivers a little.

Martin still doesn't look happy. "Listen, it's, the place I know is a ten minute walk from here. Borrow my scarf? Please?"

Gerry's got half a mind to tell him to fuck off. He doesn't like it when his clients get protective, it makes him chafe. But Martin smells like salt water again, and he can't bring himself to be a prick. "Sure."

Martin untangles the thick woollen scarf around his neck and hands it to Gerry, but Gerry shakes his head.

"We're supposed to be boyfriends, right?" He steps into Martin's personal space and grabs him lightly by the lapels. "Better get used to being boyfriend-like."

Splotches of pink appear on Martin's cheeks, but he doesn't lean away. Instead he gets this... soft look in his eyes, and then he smiles, and then he wraps the scarf carefully around Gerry's neck. It's still warm, and this close, the salt water gives way to the scents of wool sweater, musk, and something – vaguely Christmassy, almost like mulled wine.

"You smell good, Martin," Gerry says. He grins.

"Oh! Um, thank you, Gerry," Martin says. His voice is hushed, but his eyes are smiling. "You look... very good with that eyeliner."

Gerry grins. "I know. Now buy me something pretty, sugar daddy."

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays, everyone!
> 
> Also, I have a confession to make. This ficlet has consumed my life and soul over these past few days, and I'm already writing more of it. I felt bad not including it here, because I promised some people, but uhhhh surprise! More's a-coming! I'll probably start off 2K20 with a bang and post the first chapter there, haha. Even so, if any of y'all are interested to see what's gonna happen onwards and if it'll end up being a poly fic between jon and martin and gerry (spoiler it absolutely will), then please leave me a comment! :D


	8. HUNGRY HEART [Warm Bodies]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year! I've had the flu for the past week and now I've bruised my ribs from the coughing. It is hell. Good start to a new year :D
> 
> Chapter pairings: one-sided Jon/Martin (of sorts), established Jon/Michael
> 
> Chapter warnings: A lot! Blood, gore, character death, murder, cannibalism - pretty much what you'd expect when your protagonist is a not-as-of-yet-reformed zombie.

It has been months and months since he felt anything more than the vaguest stirrings of hunger. So when a sharp, metallic tang suddenly fills the room, when it fills M's nose and lungs and brain and _everything_ , it's not so strange that he lets his instincts take over fully.

There are warm ones everywhere in here, in this small room, trapped with the other cold ones like M. It's chaos and blood and _oh God the blood it smells so good I have to I need it I must-_

There is a warm one in front of M. He is screaming, his clothes are wet and red. There is a weapon in his hand, a weapon that hurts, and he is trying to aim it at M, but M can't care, M only leans in, and bites down, and chews, and _oh god_ -

he 

tears  
  
flesh and  
  
bone and

_colours **flash**_

_“Get the fuck back inside, Jon,” you say, laughter colouring your voice, and grab your stupid boyfriend by the shirt. “If Elias catches us outside the safe zone again he will skin you alive!”_

_“No, he won't,” your boyfriend says, haughty and unimpressed. “I just need these books-”_

_“Fine, he won't kill_ you _, but he'll definitely kill_ me _!”_

_This, at least, gets his attention._

_Your boyfriend looks at you, a shadow of doubt where there used to be just the thrill of searching for lost literature outside the Zone. “Michael, you don't have to-”_

_“Fuck off,” you say fondly. You know what he's going to say. He's said it before. He says it every time. “I'm not going anywhere. All I'm saying is, hurry the fuck up before any zombies come.”_

_“I'm sorry. Just give me one moment,” your boyfriend says, lips quirking in a smile that is equal amounts fondness and embarrassment. “I'm almost done.”_

_You pull him close and you kiss him, a quick thing, and he huffs a breath against your lips and you think_ I'm gonna marry you someday, Jonathan Sims, the apocalypse be damned _, and-_

_colours **flash**_

M's body shakes relentlessly with the onslaught of emotions. God, it's unlike anything he can remember, the feelings, the _love_ , it's so _potent_. He quickly cracks open the warm one and pulls the rest out, stuffs it in his pockets for later, his hands slick. There is screaming all around, and that's not important, but then-

“Michael,” someone calls. But it's not _someone_. It's your boyfriend. It's Jon. “Michael, please. Say something.”

M looks up and across the room. The warm one lays there, on the floor, coated in red and whimpering in pain. Pain. M remembers what pain is. And what the red – the _blood_ – is. One of the other cold ones are on him, but this is your boyfriend, this is the person Michael loves and M can't let him go still like the other warm ones.

He lunges at the cold one. The attack catches it off guard; they roll on the floor, snarling, and when they scramble to their feet, the cold one looks at M with confusion buried deep in its nothing.

M snarls and lays a palm on Jon's face. Smears the red across it. “My,” he says through gritted teeth. His voice is sandpaper, a new word he remembers in the moment. Sand. Paper. _Mine._

The cold one retreats. The screaming is less now, quieting. Sounds of gunfire, too, but nothing where M is. He looks down at your boyfriend. Nudges him.

Jon is quiet and still. Pale, eyes closed. He looks gone, but M can smell the blood still pumping in his veins, can hear his heart beat sluggishly. He is leaking blood, but he is still alive.

“Jon,” M says scratchily and puts a palm against your boyfriend's face. It's warm, full of blood and life. “Protect you.”

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love!
> 
> Sorry I didn't have anything more chipper to bring to the table, lol. Maybe next chapter? I *have* been binging on an awful lot of rom-coms this Christmas, after all...


End file.
